Cyber Apocalypse (Book 2): As Our World Falls Read online

  As Our World Falls

  Cyber Apocalypse Series Book 2

  Jack Hunt

  Copyright © 2020 by Jack Hunt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  As Our World Falls: Cyber Apocalypse Series Book 2 is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  The Cyber Apocalypse series

  As Our World Ends

  As Our World Falls

  Book 3 May 2020

  The Agora Virus series

  Phobia

  Anxiety

  Strain

  The War Buds series

  War Buds 1

  War Buds 2

  War Buds 3

  Camp Zero series

  State of Panic

  State of Shock

  State of Decay

  Renegades series

  The Renegades

  The Renegades Book 2: Aftermath

  The Renegades Book 3: Fortress

  The Renegades Book 4: Colony

  The Renegades Book 5: United

  The Wild Ones Duology

  The Wild Ones Book 1

  The Wild Ones Book 2

  The EMP Survival series

  Days of Panic

  Days of Chaos

  Days of Danger

  Days of Terror

  Against All Odds Duology

  As We Fall

  As We Break

  The Amygdala Syndrome Duology

  Unstable

  Unhinged

  Survival Rules series

  Rules of Survival

  Rules of Conflict

  Rules of Darkness

  Rules of Engagement

  Lone Survivor series

  All That Remains

  All That Survives

  All That Escapes

  All That Rises

  Mavericks series

  Mavericks: Hunters Moon

  Time Agents series

  Killing Time

  Single Novels

  Blackout

  Defiant

  Darkest Hour

  Final Impact

  The Year Without Summer

  The Last Storm

  The Last Magician

  The Lookout

  Class of 1989

  For my Family

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  A Plea

  Readers Team

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Los Angeles, California

  A week after collapse

  Unlike most, he was born into violence.

  Deep in the heart of the Rampart District, a notorious stretch of neighborhood bordered by the Santa Monica Freeway and the Harbor Freeway sat the Church of St. Peter’s. Framed by black smoke, it stood out like a light in the darkness, a beacon of hope to the lost, the only holy place left in L.A. Inside, Leo Henriquez surveyed solemn faces as he handed out gray blankets and bottled water to a room full of survivors. Twenty-six, short in stature, he was as much an oddity as was the untouched church people claimed God had protected.

  With the summer in full swing and more than the usual turnout, it was stifling hot inside. Warm bodies filled pews. Some slept on the ground, others crammed into corners, the rest leaned against walls and stood out on the church steps.

  None complained.

  Service to others gave him meaning, atonement for his sins. It felt good to help.

  An elderly woman with blackened skin looked up. She paused for a moment to study his inked face before offering a strained smile and thanking him in Spanish. He’d seen that expression countless times, though more so over the past two years since his departure from Barrio 18, otherwise known as the 18th Street Gang. All of the ink revealed his past association to a life he’d rather forget. Although he’d endured multiple painful trips to remove the tattoos, they still were there, faint, but visible.

  “God bless you,” he said. Leo cupped her wrinkled hands in his and said a prayer before moving on to the next.

  Since the attack on America, an event known widely as the U.S. bombings, Leo had been assisting a local pastor ministering to those in need — and how great the need was. Barring the clothes on their backs, the distinction between the homeless and the wealthy was almost invisible. The divide that had once been there had vanished in the grip of desperation — the bombings had seen to that, the attack had leveled the playing field, brought the haughty to their knees, and humbled the self-righteous.

  So much of California had vanished in an instant.

  Hundreds of miles of rich coastal property was drowned by the Pacific, the result of a monster tsunami that had rolled inland on the first day, wiping out everything in its path. Further inland, huge swaths of the city were now buried below rubble, and anything that had survived was now valuable real estate, fought over by rival gangs. The same gangs that had once plagued the county and had been kept at bay by LAPD now ruled.

  Law and order was amiss.

  Police a novel sight.

  Martial law had been imposed within days but enforcing it was a challenge too great for the country. Rumor had that any and all surviving military personnel were assisting FEMA — protecting them more like it, as he still hadn’t seen help arrive.

  Survivors forced out of homes, either by a gun or by ruin had taken to sleeping in tents, cardboard boxes or anywhere they could find a bed for the night. Others fled the city only to return when they realized the surrounding country was just as bad.

  In many ways, the entire City of Angels now resembled Skid Row — the once-famous community left to fend for itself — a poverty-stricken knot of young and old reliant on the kindness of strangers and meager handouts.

  After the initial wave of destruction, churches were the first to open their doors, and the last to turn people away.


  “Leo,” Pastor Robbie called to him from across the chapel. “Bring out another case of water.” Leo raised a hand of acknowledgment and went out back to a locked storage room. Inside, only a few brown boxes of canned goods and several twenty-four packs of water remained. A far cry from months gone by. Before the collapse, the church had offered meals twice a week to the homeless. Most of the goods were donated by local stores that had items close to expiring. As he loaded a few cases onto the cart, the sound of a gunshot startled him. It came from the sanctuary. Locking the door behind him, he hurried down a narrow corridor and entered to find Robbie on his knees with his hands up and a familiar face holding a gun to his head.

  “Ramiro?” Leo said.

  Ramiro Lopez was bald but had so many tattoos on his head, it looked as if he had hair. That day he wore baggy cream-colored pants and a black baseball T-shirt with the number 18 on the front. His eyes were covered by shades.

  “Shorty.”

  Shorty was the nickname Leo went by in the gang. Ramiro was known as Gator for his reputation of violence.

  Hurrying over to Robbie, he put a hand between them.

  “Please. This is a house of God.”

  Ramiro looked around with a grin. “Didn’t you hear? God left the building a long time ago.” The eight guys with him smirked. Despite the display of aggression, gangs had an unusual association with churches. In fact, it was one of the most predominant ways to leave a gang that was accepted. Fleeing only ended with being dragged back. That never ended well. He’d seen his fair share of runaways beaten or executed. With the 18th Street gang so widespread, attempts to run were not only hard but foolish.

  After twelve years as a member, Leo had worked his way up through the ranks; first as a puntero, or lookout, then as a seller of drugs. After that he became a gatillero, a triggerman killing rival gang members, before finishing as the compa — which meant friend and boss — the one who oversaw and coordinated operations.

  Narrowing his eyes at Ramiro, he asked, “Why are you here?”

  His lip curled. “Can’t I visit an old friend?”

  “I’m no longer in the gang.”

  Ramiro removed the 9mm from Robbie and looked him up and down before swaggering in front of the room full of people, waving his piece in the air. “Calmado,” his voice echoed. He drew out the last letter as if playing with it, or enjoying the power it had over Leo. He didn’t need to explain, Leo understood. While many gangs released their members upon request, walking away from 18th Street wasn’t so easy. However, they did offer something, a kind of negotiation to gain a status known as calmado. It meant a member could leave but couldn’t walk away entirely. Simply put, he couldn’t disavow the gang but he would no longer be required to participate in activities or hold on to the structure anymore. But, and there was always a but, just like an army reserve, if a gang found itself in a tight spot he could be called back.

  Two years, he thought it was all behind him.

  He truly thought he’d carved out a new life.

  Some might have said that he should have fled the country while he could but that would have only given them a reason to kill him. Their reach was far and wide and there was always one looking to work his way up the ranks with a kill.

  No, instead he figured he would live in plain sight, be right there on their doorstep in the hope that they would leave him be, see his work in the community and allow him peace.

  However, not every gang member held the church in high regard. Ramiro was one who didn’t.

  “What could you possibly want from me now? There is nothing left outside.”

  “Oh but there is,” Ramiro replied. “It is business as usual, my friend, and you have work to do.”

  He shook his head as he glanced at Pastor Robbie, now fearing for his safety. “I’m already doing work. God’s work.”

  Ramiro chuckled as he walked back over to Leo. “This God you speak of, where was he when the bombs hit? Hmm? Where was he when people lay crying out for mercy? And where was he” — in an instant he turned and fired a round into a middle-aged man’s forehead, his body slumped, and his wife screamed — “right then?”

  Leo’s hands balled as he took a step forward. Ramiro never flinched. “Go on,” he said, taunting him to follow through. Pastor Robbie appeared at Leo’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder. He whispered a scripture into his ear.

  Though the rage never left, his hands relaxed.

  Ramiro grinned, continuing to prowl as he spoke. “Um, just as I thought. Life serving your God has weakened you, Shorty, but I will make you strong again. Come, Alvaro has a mission for you.”

  Missions could mean anything from stealing a car to killing a rival member, however, if called back, it was a given that he wouldn’t participate in any violent acts, or kill anyone. Calmado prevented him from doing that. The missions would be simple like hiding weapons, passing on information, moving money around or serving as a messenger.

  Still, resistant to returning, Leo dug his heels in. “What could he possibly want that he doesn’t already have?” Like a flash, Ramiro came back at him, though now his smile was gone and he was all spit and fury. He pointed the 9mm at an angle toward his chest.

  “You are testing my patience, homie.”

  “All I’m asking for is clarity.”

  “And you will get it but if you don’t come now, perhaps I might be persuaded to kill a few more of these fine people, huh? Maybe that will give you clarity,” he said. He turned and waved the gun around, causing women to cry and duck, and men to wrap their arms around their children. “See, homie, it’s not God they fear, it’s me.”

  He had no choice.

  He looked at the woman who was still clutching her dead husband, then back at Pastor Robbie. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling the weight of guilt as if he had brought this upon them. Under the watchful eye of Ramiro’s guys, Leo headed for the exit.

  “Peace be with you,” Ramiro said in jest to those left behind as he followed his men out.

  1

  Denver, Colorado

  The projectile from the drone exploded upon impact.

  A burst of hot air full of glass, metal and stone blitzed the street, tearing through anything in its path. A swarm of black dots vanished overhead. Alex and the others took cover inside a café and watched as a group of survivors vanished below falling rubble. There was nothing they could have done to escape. The attack came out of nowhere.

  It was just another notch in the belt of hell they’d been wearing since day zero.

  “Sophie!” Alex yelled, holding his hand out as she ran toward him.

  He wrapped an arm around her, and they looked out in horror, watching the new wave of terror. For almost eight hours they had been stuck in this hell, running like wild animals from drones in the sky.

  Where they had come from was a mystery.

  “How can this be? The power grid is down,” Sophie said.

  “Depends how they’re powered,” Alex said squinting into the afternoon sunshine.

  Thomas stepped forward. “Yeah. Even though UAVs are often powered by batteries and only last around thirty minutes before they need recharging, the military has been known to use hydrogen fuel cells which can increase air time up to eight hours, and that’s just those big ones.” He pointed up. “You see those high-speed suckers,” he said. “That’s some high-level autonomous tech. It makes me wonder if our foreign friends don’t have an inside man.” He looked over at Ryan and raised an eyebrow.

  “Do I look like I work for the government?” Ryan shot back.

  “You did.”

  “Yeah, to get out of a box, not to put society in one.”

  Thomas snorted, turning his attention to the air. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re using state-of-the-art facial recognition.”

  Alex shook his head. “Hardly see the point unless they’re after someone, which it doesn’t look like as they’re dropping payloads on everything that moves.”


  Cars exploded farther up the street. No one escaped.

  “Aren’t you glad we didn’t drive through here?” Thomas said, a smile forming. He had a dark sense of humor, one that Alex still wasn’t getting used to after he agreed to let him come with them.

  Seven days on the road. If America hadn’t been crippled by the bombings, it shouldn’t have taken more than three driving straight through.

  Although vehicles were working, the power and internet were down and with that came a host of trouble. State after state they had witnessed the aftermath of the coordinated attack unleashed by hackers and it wasn’t pretty — buildings flattened, homes burnt to the ground, bodies littering the streets.

  If the widespread destruction wasn’t hard enough to deal with, the panic that followed was worse. Everyone dealt with it in their own way. Some locked themselves inside their homes, others jumped on the bandwagon and raided stores. The few honest ones paid in cash. It was like watching the Los Angeles riots. Monkey see monkey do. If one person got away with something another followed suit, and why not? There was no CCTV that would capture them breaking into a store, and law enforcement was running on skeleton crews and wasn’t capable of handling the increase in crime. So was it any surprise when people took survival into their own hands and stepped over the line between right and wrong?

  As for martial law? The very mention of it was met with laughter. The truth was the military and government had their hands full. Sure in the first few days they’d seen them at checkpoints, directing traffic, checking vehicles, and many roaming towns and cities, but that soon became less frequent.

 
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